


forgive or forget

by blueparacosm



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Blood, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Violence, canonverse, come for the gay not for the science, in which murphy hangs a bit too long and loses his memory, mostly angst but a bit of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 16:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7394470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueparacosm/pseuds/blueparacosm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s selfish, it’s wrong, it’s borderline evil- but he’s never been good at denying himself of what he wants.</p><p>"I've never hurt you, and I never will." </p><p>He's sick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	forgive or forget

**Author's Note:**

> tagged mature and for graphic violence but its not even that bad i just think it makes the fic look more badass 
> 
> i did as much research on amnesia as i had the patience for and im aware its probably very inaccurate so i apologize for that.
> 
> so in this fic murphy comes down (literally) with a case of dissociative amnesia which usually occurs after a traumatic experience and the victim's memory of that bad experience and often the hours/days/weeks or even years leading up to it are buried (they dont get wiped or anything so those memories can sometimes come back if triggered) and honestly im not sure if anything i just said was correct but i write simple things like a poorly written telenovela so don't expect much.
> 
> enjoy?? maybe

 

There’s a kind of painful silence after the body stops thrashing. A kind of indescribable horror in everyone’s eyes. Everyone's covering their mouths and noses, wringing their hands. A few people have begun to cry, and it's incredible the kind of change that can occur in a room with the sound of a flat line. The man who kicked the crate stands, arms by his sides, and doesn't waver, refuses to break, watching the boy’s blank eyes as they bore into his own, his suddenly frail-looking body swinging there like a wind chime.

He never thought it would go this far.

Then, there’s a voice. “Murphy didn’t kill Wells. _I did._ ”

Bellamy’s stomach churns and his legs fold underneath him as shouts of terror fill the air and silence the songbirds. He killed an innocent man. His friend. He wretches into the dirt as people scream, feels a sharp pain in his side as someone pushes past to cut the body down. Something warm and acidic-tasting dribbles over his lips and onto the back of his hand. Everything is spinning for a moment, and then it’s gone.

 

***

 

“Bellamy, you’re up.”

He registers that he’s below whomever is speaking, and that the ground beneath him soft, and warm. He’s on a pile of rags and blankets. He shifts, and realizes the makeshift mattress is being held together by a red dropship seat-belt. There’s a sudden pang in his chest and a burst of adrenaline that almost has him passing out again as he jumps to his feet, looking at the blonde frantically, eyes wild. “Where is he? Clarke, where’s the body? I need- I- I have to see it.”

She looks at him thoughtfully, which scares him, and then there’s a small hand on his shoulder as she pivots his body. His eyes find their place immediately. He feels the bile rising in his throat again when he sets eyes on it, but pushes it back down.“Why’s it in here?”

“Go look at him, Bellamy.”

He feels that familiar fear bubble up in his chest, making his throat feel tight. What kind of sick game is she playing? He stands there, a statue, blinking with owlish, wide and red-ringed eyes. Why?

“Go,” she repeats, more forcefully, and shoves him forward. He looks back at her, startled, before approaching slowly and crouching down. Murphy’s face is pale, and there are red-stained bandages around his throat and on his face, and an orange blanket pulled up only to his torso. “Why?” Bellamy asks quietly, so softly that he wouldn’t have been heard if Clarke weren’t so close to him. “He’s _alive_ , Bellamy.”

Bellamy’s heart stutters. It can’t be. “He- he looks dead.”

“He’s just... pale.”

“But he’s-” Bellamy lifts a trembling finger to Murphy’s cheek, and then reels back, pulling his hands close to him. “He’s cold, too. Are you-are you screwing with me? This isn’t f-fucking funny.” Clarke sighs exasperatedly, reaching over to snatch up Bellamy’s right hand and forces him to extend his index and middle finger. She guides his hand- even as he struggles- to the boy’s neck. _A pulse._ He feels the beat travel through his fingers and it shakes his entire being. He’s feeling everything, and nothing, all at once.

Bellamy shifts from his knees to his rear, curling in on himself. He stares at the body- no- the person, and then drops his head into his hands and begins to shake, but no tears fall. Clarke lowers herself to the ground across from him, changing Murphy’s bandages as he sleeps.

“My mom raised me to be good. To be better. I’m a _monster_ ,” he rasps, and his voice cracks pitifully.

“You did what you thought was right, Bellamy,” Clarke mutters quietly, eyes trained on peeling a bandage from below Murphy’s swollen eye without breaking the freshly formed scab underneath it. “You wanted justice. How could you have known?”

Bellamy shakes his head, inky curls falling over slightly bloodshot eyes. I wanted power, he thinks, not justice. But he doesn’t say it. Not yet, not now. Not ever. If power meant taking the lives of others, he wanted no part in it. Watching your friend swinging from a tree like an animal in a trap proved to be a rude awakening to reality. He rests his chin on his arms and stares at the rise and fall of Murphy's chest under the blankets, waiting for it to stop. Convinced the whole word is on some elaborate plan to screw him the fuck over all the time.

“I know you’re kind of overwhelmed right now- but I should probably tell you before he wakes up again-”

Bellamy interrupts her with a raised hand and a huff of air. “Clarke, I don’t want to talk right now. I just need to-”

“Bellamy, stop, it’s about-”

A dry, hacking cough cuts her off, and the two of them turn their heads to the source of the sound. “Hey Doc, can I get s-some-" Murphy stops, eyes landing on Bellamy. He stares, and stares, traveling over every detail of his face with immense focus. Bellamy waits for the scream, the anger, balls his fists up and prepares for the lunge that never comes. "Who’s this?”

Bellamy’s previously widened, fear-filled eyes narrow and he scrunches up his nose in confusion, staring down at him and loosening his fists as Murphy props himself up on his elbows shakily and looks him up and down. Bellamy shifts uncomfortably under the younger boy’s unyielding gaze, head spinning with questions.

Clarke sighs. “I’ll get you some water, Murphy. This-” she motions to Bellamy, “-is coming with me. You stay right here, okay?”

“Cool,” he agrees, sinking back down in the blankets and pillows under him easily.

Bellamy turns his head to continue to look at Murphy even as he exits the dropship, guided by Clarke, who tugs him along roughly and presumably angrily.

They walk quickly to what’s been dubbed by the delinquents oh-so-cleverly as the “watering hole”, and the blonde begins to speak, voice sharp and words clipped. “My mom’s the doctor, not me- but something in Murphy’s brain was damaged when he was hanged. I think he has dissociative amnesia, so he’s having trouble remembering things from weeks before he was hanged as well as the event itself. It’s most likely a trauma thing but might also have to do with oxygen deprivation, but again, I’m not an actual doctor. I think, but don’t trust me on this, if we rehabilitate him correctly, his memory might eventually come back. But that’s what I need to talk to you about-”

“Why didn’t he recognize me?”

Clarke cringes, obviously having expected that question to come up and feeling a bit agitated knowing Bellamy isn't listening to a word she's saying, and tries to rinse off a dirty tin cup for Murphy’s water. “See, he remembers a lot of people who he knew pretty well in the sky box and on the Ark beforehand, so while he recognizes his friend Mbege, as well as Miller and Jasper and the like, he didn’t remember me, for example, because I’d never met him until the ground due to being in solitary- and he never met you until we landed either. So, yeah. He has no recollection of you whatsoever- but because I believe it’s only dissociative amnesia-”

Bellamy scoffs. “Yeah, _only_ a little amnesia, no big de-”

“Shut up,” she cuts him off, too easily. She’s never liked his jokes. Bellamy wonders absently if they’ll ever be friends. Probably not. “As I was saying, because of the type of amnesia he probably has, the memories aren’t gone- only buried. There’s a chance they’ll come back if we were to talk to him about the hanging, surround him with things involved in the incident, see if anything triggers his memory.” She takes in a deep breath, then gives a shaky exhale, as if she isn’t so sure about the words that leave her mouth next. “The thing is, do we want him to remember?”

Bellamy’s face twists up in a very unattractive way at his co-leader’s suggestion, as Clarke fills the finally spotless cup with water and begins heading back towards the dropship. Bellamy feels a stab of anger in his chest and curls his fists as she walks away from him. He catches up and quickly jabs a finger at her collarbone. “We can’t play God, Clarke! You just want everyone to get in on this elaborate lie to him, act like we never wronged him, keep making him work for us after we almost got him killed?”

Clarke raises an eyebrow and turns her lips down into something like a snarl. “You mean after you almost got him killed? Remember who kicked the crate, Bellamy? Or did you lose your memory too?”

The older man falls silent, face paling in shame as he shoves his fists deep in his pockets. “We have to tell him,” he grumbles. Clarke shrugs. “Sure, Murphy’s always been a reasonable guy. I’m sure he’ll just forgive everyone, initiate a group hug, and go plant some flowers while he’s at it.” She feigns a wide smile and then cocks her head, stepping directly in his path, stopping him where he stands. “Decide if you want to risk peace and safety for these new morals of yours- then get back to me.”

She enters the dropship without him, echoes of her stomping on the cold metal ringing in his ears. He follows quickly after her, but can’t pinpoint exactly why he’s so eager to do so. Bellamy stops just outside the parachute curtain, listening in.

“Here’s your water, Murphy.” “Thanks.”

 _Thanks?_ Yeah, he definitely has brain damage, Bellamy thinks.

“Where’s the hot dude with the freckles?”

Bellamy cringes, but smiles to himself, blushing from head to toe. He quickly scolds himself for reacting like a crushing schoolgirl in a movie.

Clarke chuckles quietly. “Left him outside. Tied him to a post.”

Bellamy imagines Murphy smiling at that. He almost steps inside at the thought of seeing it, but holds himself back, becoming frustrated with his growing affection for the boy who he almost murdered. “I’m _sick_ ,” he mutters to himself, fully aware that if anyone could read his mind they’d think he was downright evil.

“His name?” “That’s Bellamy Blake, he’s Octavia’s older brother. You remember Octavia?” “Yeah, kinda. Had Earth Skills with her."

Bellamy shifts from one foot to another, looking over his shoulder to ensure no one’s watching him spying, only to find a small crowd trying to listen to their conversation as well. Bellamy frowns, shooing them off, and the group groans and mutters but eventually returns to their daily activities. _Children_ , he thinks, but then remembers that they actually are.

Murphy pipes up again, voice rough and low. “Thank you for helping me, by the way. This whole memory thing is- um-” “Scary?” “Yeah... that’s the word.” “I can imagine. I’ll give you your rest and send someone in to watch you, let them know if you need anything. Remember, don’t move. You have some stitches on your torso and arms that I’d hate to have to redo.”

Suddenly, there are footsteps moving towards the curtain, and Bellamy scrambles to back away and try and look casual. He resorts to leaning against the nearest tree, pocketing his hands and training his eyes on the ground.

“I know you were spying.”

He cringes and straightens up, looking bashful. “Sorry.”

“Have you made up your mind?”

“I-” Bellamy was prepared to say yes, demand that they tell Murphy the truth, be an upstanding citizen and a respectable leader- but then he begins to imagine a world in which he’s just “the hot dude with the freckles”, not some monster who hung his friend for a crime he didn’t commit. He knows if he tells Murphy, that’s not the world he’ll get to live in. It’s selfish, it’s wrong, it’s borderline evil- but he’s never been good at denying himself what he wants.

“I won’t say anything.” After a beat, he clears his throat. “Um, for peace.”

Clarke lifts an eyebrow suggestively. “ _Right._ Peace.” Bellamy sighs, rolling his eyes at her. Clarke smiles softly, seeing right through him like she always does. “Go see your little boyfriend, _hot dude_.” “Shut up, Clarke,” he grumbles, fighting a grin of his own and shuffling quickly up the ramp to the dropship. He pushes back the curtain and steps inside, hands shaking with nerves. “Hey, Murphy.”

“Hey, big fella.” Murphy pats the seat next to his “bed”, being uncharacteristically friendly, and Bellamy approaches cautiously, lowering himself down slowly, trying not to startle the boy at his feet.

“I forgot some stuff, I’m not a wild animal or anything. You don’t have to be like that around me.”

Straightforward as ever, some things never change.

After a long moment of numbing silence, it’s shattered by an equally broken voice.“What happened to me?” Murphy asks, and it’s such a huge question that it flips Bellamy’s stomach completely, nauseating him in the worst of ways. Murphy raises a thin finger to the bandages around his throat, squeezing his drooping eyes shut as if he were straining to remember, and Bellamy understands that this moment will make or break them. And he almost cracks, he can feel his walls crumbling, years of lying for his sister, his family, all down the drain. He knows the truth is the only way out, he learned it the hard way. But he wants this. He wants to fix this.

“You got into a knife fight. His name was Wells, but he’s dead now.” The lie is effortless, easy. The look in Murphy’s eyes isn’t.

He looks scared, confused. Bellamy’s throat tightens up and his breathing quickens. Does he know he’s lying, is he remembering already? Murphy sits up in his bed, wringing his mud-stained hands together weakly. “Did I...”

The older man shakes his head quickly, dark hair bouncing atop his head. “No, no. One of the young girls in camp killed him. It wasn’t you.” Murphy lets out a heavy sigh of relief. “We’re really killing each other down here? The Ark really ruined us, didn’t it?”

Bellamy nods slowly, head feeling too full, already heavy with guilt. It really did.

He decides to get right to the point. “Do you remember me, at all?”

Murphy’s face pales and he turns his head away, squeezing his fingers nervously. “No, sorry.” Bellamy wonders vaguely how many times he’s answered that question today.

“It’s okay. We were... friends? You were kind of my right-hand man of sorts.”

He turns back slowly, eyes gleaming with curiosity.“That’s- unlike me. Tell me more.”

Bellamy does the math in his head of just how much more he can tell him, already feeling guilty. “Um... there’s not much to tell. I taught you how to throw knives, which was really nice of me, by the way. You’re welcome.”

Murphy laughs quietly, and it’s quiet and scratchy and everything Bellamy thought it would be. Not that he had imagined making Murphy laugh before, like, a thousand times, or anything.

“The last thing I remember is going to sleep in my cell, which is obviously a very different place from this larger cell I’m being imprisoned in.” He gestures to the dropship and Bellamy’s lips turn up in a small grin, which encourages Murphy to keep talking. “I’ve been told there are trees outside, which I’ll admit I’d like to see. Also the sky is blue and not black, which, whatever. Why the hell are we here, anyway?” He drops his head into the pillows, a few sentences having apparently exhausted him.

Bellamy sits there thoughtfully for a moment, before rising to his feet and walking towards the exit. “Something I said?” Murphy calls out, and Bellamy stifles a grin before pushing the parachute divider together from both ends and then moving it to the left end of the rod, exposing the camp for Murphy to see from his bed.

Bellamy’s heart pulsates as he watches Murphy’s eyes light up with a child-like wonder, having seen earth for the first time (well, the second time.)

“That’s fuckin’ neat, man,” he says it like a gasp, all in one soft breath of disbelief. Bellamy chuckles, matching his gaze and settling his eyes on the treeline as he walks backwards to his seat. He was experiencing an extremely unnerving sensation, feeling as if he were too seeing the brilliant oranges and pinks of the afternoon sunset sky and the vibrant greens of the surrounding forest for the first time. He felt as if he were seeing out of Murphy’s eyes, and it terrified him. It terrified him, because it felt _good_. Because the dead weight in his heart and on his shoulders from years of grieving, loss gnawing away at the wonder and lightness that people like Murphy still had, was momentarily lifted away, and he knew then that the boy before him was just a kid.

He was just a kid, and Bellamy knew, sinking into those ocean eyes, that he was going to protect him. Because that’s what he does.

So that’s what he did.

 

***

 

He protected him, just like he promised. For as long as he could.

But truth is the only way out, he knows. All lies come to an end eventually.

It was like every other morning, lying in their bed in the fallen Alpha station, surrounded by the Arkadia gates and finally, at last, feeling truly safe. But there was something particular about that day. He’s carding his fingers through his sleeping boyfriend’s hair, lips glued to his bare shoulder and an arm around his waist. He glances down and notices the smoothness of Murphy’s skin, how few scars he has compared to everyone else. Bellamy traces circles on Murphy’s hip, remembering how bony and skinny he used to be. He presses a soft kiss to one of his cheeks, just under his eye, and he recalls how colorless and hollow his cheeks once were. The boy sleeps soundly even as Bellamy snuggles closer, brushing his knuckles over Murphy’s throat in a way that he worries he wouldn’t be able to in another life. In a life where Murphy was just as wounded as the rest of them, probably more, knowing how he once was. How broken he was before anyone else had even scraped a knee.

He imagines a world in which Murphy’s the one waking up in a cold sweat from his nightmares- face drenched in snot and tears with lungs sore from screaming and inhaling the dry air of the night- and not Bellamy. But the older man can’t recall a sunset where Murphy didn’t sleep soundly, other than the occasional night horror about his mother or father, or one of the times that Bellamy was taken from him and tortured. The Earth was a cruel place, but not to John Murphy. Bellamy made sure of it.

He had done good. He had kept his promise.

So why did it feel so... _wrong?_

“Murphy,” Bellamy whispers, running a thumb over the curve of Murphy’s ear. “ _Murph,_ ” he mumbles, a bit louder when the brunet doesn’t stir. The boy blinks one, twice, three times, and then rolls over, offering a lazy smile and tucking his head against Bellamy’s chest. Bellamy, at the sight of him, vulnerable and so beautiful in the soft morning light, is overcome with love. The kind of love that fills up your heart and your soul and renders you useless. And he might not know much about love, but he does know that you can’t lie to it. And maybe he’d always known it was him, but now he’s sure. He wants to spend the rest of his life with the boy in his arms. Because it’s him. It’s him it’s him _it’s him_ and- and he knows what he’s has to do.

The silence lingers, when suddenly Murphy reels back and leans on his elbows, looking up at his partner with worry in his eyes. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing,” Bellamy answers too quickly, and Murphy sits all the way up, sheets pooling in his lap. “Don’t lie to me. Your heart was beating at the speed of light, what’s your problem?”

Bellamy curses how observant he is, how well Murphy knows him. Too well. He let this go too far.

He never thought it would go this far.

All of his muscles tighten up and he feels paralyzed, because the words about to come from his mouth could ruin everything. He knows that this is the moment of truth, literally, and he’s not sure he’s strong enough. He can withstand all things, even death, but Murphy makes him weak. So, so weak.

And it’s because he’s so weak that he knows this is love, and that’s why he knows he can’t lie anymore.

“I’ve been keeping something from you for a long time, Murphy. And I just want you to know that I love you, okay? Before I tell you this just know that I love you, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” His voice shakes and he feels utterly pathetic, he feels like a poser, a liar. He feels like the enemy.

Murphy’s clenching the bedsheets in his fists, chest red and splotchy with blush as it travels up his throat and into his cheeks. He’s rarely nervous, and the sight of him like this makes the eldest man’s heart plummet. ’“Bellamy, you’re scaring me,” he says, but scoots closer and rests a hand on his knee anyway. They’re facing each other head on now, sitting cross legged in the bed they’ve shared for months now, and the cold air from early spring is wafting through the room and chilling them to the bone, and neither of them have ever felt so vulnerable. Bellamy shifts and slides off of the bed, dropping Murphy’s hand in his wake. He kneels by the bed and reaches under it, fingers groping around blindly until he finds what he’s looking for.

He’s kept the two items for the year it’s been since Murphy lost his memory, carried them with him wherever he could. He sits still on his knees and clutches his things in an iron-grip, knuckles turning white and bones aching. Perhaps if he crushes them, the memory will disappear altogether.

The blue-eyed boy crawls to the end of the bed and tries to peer down at whatever the other man is holding, and catches a glimpse of red, and something metallic.

“Do you recognize this?” Bellamy says, and holds up a small knife with a yellow and green striped handle and a crude, blood-crusted blade. Murphy squints, taking the knife carefully and flipping it over in his hands. He glares at the thing, trying to remember if he’s seen it, and catches sight of “J.M.” carved into the inside of it’s handle. “Those are my initials.” Bellamy nods. That’s not the information he needed, Murphy guesses. He shakes his head and frowns, returning the knife to Bellamy’s open palm.

Bellamy sighs deeply, shakily, praying to whatever cosmic being that has most likely already given up on him that he won’t have to say what he did out loud, hoping that Murphy will remember on his own.

“This?” he whispers, and slowly raises a bundle of red. Murphy shakes his head easily. “It’s just a dropship seat-belt, those things are fucking everywhere. Is this one special or something?”

Bellamy’s fingers twitch, he has one last move, and his pulse quickens as he begins to pull apart the bundle. He’s never unfolded it before, and he’s afraid. He’s not sure he’ll be able to take looking at it, remembering so vividly what he did to the man he loves.

And suddenly the bundle is a noose, and the inside of it is darkened with blood, and Bellamy’s arm is extended ever-so slightly and shaking harder than Murphy’s ever seen it, and Murphy glares as hard as he can at the thing, trying to remember, for Bellamy. And when he still feels nothing, and pictures the noose in a hundred different scenes and places with hundreds of different people and is still numb, he reaches out and touches it from the side, so that it swings, just barely, to the left. And that slight movement has him reeling backwards and flattening himself against the wall of their compartment, and Bellamy’s dropped the noose and is scrambling across the bed with tear tracks on his cheeks, saying something, maybe his name, but Murphy is in my mind, out of his body.

It comes back in flashes, behind walls of black, Clarke, a knife, he feels phantom pain all over his body as blurred out faces tug at his hair and kick the same bruises until he can’t feel his sides or his face, and he drops to his knees as he remembers Bellamy’s face, Bellamy, his love, his protector, standing idly by, watching him be torn apart. There’s a flash of green and brown as he’s sent rolling down a slope, and his palms feel glued to the floor. He’s restrained, he can’t move, and there’s so much pain. More than he’s ever felt. The noose is there, swinging over so slightly to the left, and suddenly it’s on him, and it’s tightening, red hands around his throat, and he’s feeling everything and nothing all at once. All he sees is Bellamy, he remembers calling out his name, how it sounded with the blood in his mouth and ears, and then- for a moment- it all just, stops. The flashes are gone, and he hears Bellamy say his name but his eyes are closed so tightly because if he opens them it all go away and he has to see this, he has to remember.

He has to remember.

And he sucks in a shaky. copper-smelling breath of air and thinks, before, before, before. He hears voices, more than one, and blocks them out. He feels hands on his body but he rips them away, shoves himself against the wall and puts all his weight into it, grinding his shoulder blades into the metal to get away from them. Before.

And suddenly it comes back, it happens again, and he’s in the forest and that morning sunshine is lighting the scene, and someone’s next to him. “Watch and learn,” the voice says, quietly, rough and low, and Murphy knows who it is. And that memory starts to fade into another when- he clasps his ears- he’s jerked back into reality by an earth-shattering scream of his name.

He blinks once, and the room is full of people. Clarke is in his face, eyes gleaming and wet as she drags him up off of the floor, she's saying _"You're hurting yourself,"_ but he isn't listening, and once they’re standing he shoves her away and wrenches his arm from her grasp. He has to find him.

Him.

He’s there, Kane is talking to him but Bellamy isn’t listening, he has tears streaming down his face in a way that makes Murphy’s heart pound, first with sympathy, love, and then anger. He lunges forward, prepared to attack, to scream, to demand to know why, but suddenly there’s a flash of white, and a stinging sensation in his neck, and then it’s all gone.

 

***

 

“You lied to me.”

Bellamy wakes with a start, jumping to his feet as his lover breaks the silence. It was the middle of the night and the medical wing was lit only by the dim electric lanterns by the patient’s bedsides.

“Murph...”

“Don’t call me that.”

It feels like a punch in the gut.

He twists his hands together, face darkening with fear and guilt as he thinks of what to say, trying to choose his words carefully. “I’m sorry.” Murphy’s face twists up in disgust, something ugly and unfamiliar. It’s what he doesn’t say. Sorry isn’t good enough.

“I lied because- because I _loved_ you.” There’s a kind of pleading sound in his words, and his eyes burn and his brows are turned up and everything about him screams please, please, _please._

“Don’t give me that shit, Blake. You didn’t want to deal with it, that’s why,” Murphy says, weakly, and even with his mind and body numbed by anesthesia, he’s right. Bellamy knows he’s right.

“I know. I know, you’re right. But-” he takes in a watery breath, knowing his words sound empty but not knowing how to fill them. “I’m still sorry. I’ll always be sorry, you- you have to know that.” He can feel the tears skidding down his cheeks and he doesn’t understand how he has any left in him, and he feels weak in the knees and his throat is tight and his heart is beating too fast and everything hurts, so, so bad. He’s desperate.

“I want you to leave, Bellamy.”

A sharp intake of air. Something dies inside of him, he can feel it. But Bellamy ducks his head, hair falling into his bloodshot eyes, and he walks out, just as he’s asked, leaving the best part of his life on the other side of two cold hospital doors.

All because he ~~loved him~~ didn’t want to deal with it.

 

***

 

Abby comes in shortly, says something about how he’s hurt but not fractured his scapula and sustained some minor head injuries and _blah, blah, blah_. He’s counting the overhead lights and thinking about falling asleep again when she says something that slaps him back to reality. “Because of your- and I say this as nicely as I can- tantrum, back in your compartment yesterday morning, those minor head injuries that you weren’t listening about could affect your amnesia negatively.” He tilts his head in confusion, narrowing his eyes. How did she know? Did she know all along? (How could it possibly get worse?) Was _everyone_ lying to him?

His breathing quickens.

Abby taps her clipboard with a pen thoughtfully, and then raises the pen in the air as if she’s discovered something. “Did you watch cartoons on the Ark, John?” He nods slowly, trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder blade and the back of his head, wondering absently where she’s going with this. “Have you ever seen a character hit their head, forget something, and then they hit their head again later and their memory comes back?” He nods again, but then tilts his head, thinking. “Wouldn’t that be a _good_ thing?” “Sure, if it were true. The truth is that a second _‘bonk’_ on the head is only going to make it harder to remember things, so don’t be surprised if those memories you never fully got to are buried even deeper now.” She turns her mouth down on the one side and softens her eyes, going for the sympathetic mother look that always made Murphy’s heart ache. There are some things he wishes he _had_ forgotten.

Murphy grimaces and leans back against his pillow, closing his eyes. “Why are you even telling me this if there’s nothing I can do about it?”

“I just don’t want you to stress out over trying to dig up what you almost saw, because you may never get to it.” She pauses, and then after a beat, “You could always ask someone, though.”

He laughs darkly, running a bruised hand over his face. “Did Bellamy pay you to say that?”

Abby sighs and hands him a glass of water before heading over to speak with her assistant, Jackson, leaving Murphy reeling with his thoughts, some panic, and a bit of resentment for Bellamy.

But he really, really wants to know.

 

***

 

They kept him in that bed for roughly a week, asking him questions about things he remembers that he’s already answered a few hundred too many times, holding him hostage for all of the delinquents who care enough to come apologize, and for him to spit at their feet and watch as they shuffle out again, heads bowed in a kicked puppy sort of way. A sick part of him likes it, but most of him aches. For what he thought he had, and what he’ll never get back. Because of who he really is: a bitter, miserable, easily-manipulated bastard.

Sometimes he imagines taking their lives, hurting them, breaking their bones and tightening his hands around their throats. When the boy who tied his noose comes to say sorry, Murphy thinks about twisting a knife around somewhere between his ribs- but then he remembers he’s never much liked the look or the smell of blood.

Or at least, that’s what he says to himself. The truth is that he’d grown to see them all as his family. Sure, they fought, he’d given a fair share of his fellow delinquents a nosebleed and a bruise or two, but he’s just never been good with his temper. It was never about hate.

Murphy couldn’t hate them. Murphy couldn’t hate him.

Because he loved them. Him.

Him, him, him. He loved him. That was the only thing he was sure of, the only thing he would ever be sure of.

He rests a hand on the door handle to his compartment (the one he never stayed in because he spent every night at Bellamy’s), and bends his knee to look at the bottom of his boot where his room pass-code is written. He made it his birth year like the goddamned mastermind he is, and taps 2132 into the keypad, smiling to himself when he hears the little “ _beep!_ ” noise and the click of his door unlocking. It’s the little things in life.

He’s expecting to open the door to an empty, dust-covered gray box- but that is certainly not where he stands now. He scans the room with bewilderment in his eyes. Bed made with his favorite blue sheets and orange blanket draped over the end of it. A small wooden bedside table that he knows has his and Bellamy’s initials carved into it. Ration cards (and a few extras that certainly aren’t his) on top of it. He opens the drawer and finds all of his junk things inside, wood blocks with complex patterns notched into them, crudely-sharpened throwing knives, little silver animals that he stole from Finn when he was alive, poems and stories that Bellamy wrote ~~in his pretty handwriting~~ for Murphy, all folded up and wrapped in twine. A box of his clothes on the floor. A board for his throwing knives with a smiley-face drawn onto it. A note on the bed.

Wait, that’s not his.

_“Dear Murphy,_

_If I forgot anything for your room, leave me a note and I’ll bring it by when you’re out._

_You can stop reading here, if you want._

_I thought you might like to know the rest.”_

Murphy takes in a deep, wavering breath, wrenching his eyes closed tightly. He forces them open again almost immediately and sits down on the bed, preparing himself for the worst.

_“I knew from the moment I saw you that you were different. It was funny, actually. You were writing these threats to Jaha’s son, Wells, on the dropship wall. You spelled the word “die” wrong, and didn’t even look embarrassed when he corrected you and walked on by.”_

Murphy huffs, falling onto his back and fighting a grin. Typical.

_“I needed you on my side. I asked you to help me lead the camp, be my right hand. You looked at me in a way that sent chills down my spine._

_We spent every day together, throwing knives, talking by the fire, making plans for the camp. You were building a wall, got a little bossy, made some enemies. You didn’t have a nice bone in your body, (except for me.) It only made me like you more._

_You made a joke about Octavia, once. Pissed me off. I wasn’t a nice person, then. (Being with you changed me for the better, just FYI. It’s ironic, really. Considering that you’re... well... you. No offense.)”_

He snickers to himself only slightly, rolling onto his side and propping his chin up on his hand as he continues reading.

_“I remembering grabbing your jacket and pulling you close, after I was done yelling, our faces were so close I thought I was going to kiss you. Or you were going to kiss me, but probably not. I’m sorry my breath smelled like panther meat. I tried really hard to make it go away- just in case. It wasn’t a very romantic moment, and I ended up walking away instead. I saw you throw your knife, and it finally stuck. That’s where Charlotte found it, stuck in that tree, and killed Wells. She let you take the fall for it, and we hanged you. For “justice”, but in hindsight, it was for blood thirst, entertainment and for me, it was for power. I let my own wants come before you, and I remember what it felt like after I did it. After I kicked the crate. The world fell out from under me.”_

Murphy stops reading for a moment, pressing on his eyelids to make the tears piling up fall from the corners of his eyes so he can see clearly- but his mind feels foggy as he lifts the paper again.

_“I remember it every night, and sometimes I wake up crying and you’re there and you’re alive and you’re telling me everything’s alright... but it’s not. It just isn’t. Because I lied to you. I lied to you for so long because I wanted you to love me. I’m selfish, and if you never forgive me I understand._

_But I love you. And that day that I showed you the sky I promised I’d never let you get hurt again, and I didn’t, (mostly, but you always find a way, don’t you?) But I realized on the morning that I showed you the noose that I had taken your life from you, and I had lied to you, and that was how to really hurt you. I know you can take a punch._

_When you woke up after I almost took your life, and you didn’t remember a thing I had done and you looked at me like you did the first you saw me- I needed that. I couldn’t not be with you. I needed to be just “the hot guy with the freckles”, not the one who betrayed you, not the monster who almost killed you. But I should have thought about you. I’m sorry._

_I love you. I’m so sorry._

_“Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say goodnight ‘til it be morrow.”_

_-Blakespeare.”_

Murphy folds up the yellowed piece of paper, tears dripping on the ink and smudging the words. He smiles tightly for a moment, memories of Bellamy flashing through his mind like a movie of his life, but then his face drops completely, that temporary peace shattering.

“You lied,” he whispers, and crushes the paper in one hand. He balls his fist up as tightly as it will go, white-knuckled hands shaking something fierce. Then he tosses the paper to the floor, missing the wastebasket by just an inch. He can’t be bothered to retrieve it, and closes his eyes as he lies down, gripping his pillow like it's a person, alone for the first time in a very, very long time.

 

***

 

“Hey, jackass!” He blinks rapidly, shaken from his daydreaming by the brunette across the table. Raven plants a shot of something next to his trembling hands and offers a crooked smile. “Hey, bitch.”

“Quit staring at that shot like it killed your family and throw it back,” she offers, and Murphy flinches. ~~It kind of did kill his family.~~ “Sorry, poor word choice.”

He shrugs, following her command and biting down the hiss that rises after the alcohol burns it’s way down his throat.

“You talked to Bellamy yet? It’s been, what? A month?”

“No, yes, and don’t plan on it.”

“You can’t avoid him forever, you know.”

“He acted like he had never done me wrong for an entire fuckin’ year, I’m pretty sure I’ll last.” 

“That’s fair,” Raven mutters, and shakes her head in apology when a group of the delinquents wave her over to their table. Murphy’s got a whole eight chairs to himself, since everyone’s afraid to come near him now. Raven, being the only one from back at the dropship who never knew about the hanging, is his only friend these days, and he’d like to keep it that way. He does feel sorry for her though, considering how she now sacrifices her social life to sit around and mope with him. “Just go,” he says, like always. A formality. “Don’t care for them anyway,” she replies, like always.

It’s the only thing familiar anymore.

"Do you even miss him?"

Murphy glances up and meets her softening brown eyes as she notices the way his hands still shake, how the whites of his eyes have been the same tint of red that only deepens with each passing week without him. "No," he lies, and Raven gives him a half-smile. She knows, and he knows she knows, and she knows he knows she knows. But she doesn't say anything.

They sit quietly for a long time, breathing in the fresh air that they were deprived of for so long, listening to the chatter traveling on gusts of wind around them.

Eventually, she breaks the silence. “I’m gonna go tidy up the workshop and then hit the sack, see you tomorrow, jackass. She rises easily and collects her jacket from the back of her chair. In a quieter voice she adds, “Get some dinner before you head back.” Murphy bids her goodbye with a half-assed, closed-lip smile- his way of saying thanks. She takes off without looking back, and with the space in front of him empty he can see the bonfire’s flames licking the backdrop of night, and the orange light that’s dancing over one face.

His face.

Murphy stares at him for a moment, knowing he shouldn’t, and first he’s angry, and then he’s sad, and then he’s disgusted. With him, with himself, with everyone. Everything.

Bellamy almost killed him, and then lied about it for almost twelve months, and now he has the nerve to cry and whine and to sit around the fire with that numb, stupid-looking face all the time. To ignore everyone and push people away and half-ass his job and stare at Murphy with those dumb fucking lovesick puppy-dog eyes from across camp every day and-

-and they’re exactly the same.

Murphy knows that the empty, hollowing feeling in his chest and the bitter taste on his tongue is nothing more than the sick, disgusting backwash of love. Longing.

Bellamy ducks his head and runs his hands through his hair, scrubbing at his face and staring into the fire like he’s about to do something monumental (he never does.) Murphy tilts his head, wondering for the first time if Bellamy’s hurting too. (He knows he is.) Wondering for the first time if maybe Bellamy really did do it because he loved him. (He knows he did.) Wondering for the first time if maybe, just maybe, it was time to move on. (He knows it is.)

He’s not wondering. He’s missing him.

And with one last glance at the shell of the man at the fire, flickers of red and orange cascading over every line, every scar, every freckle on his blank face, and with one last pang, one last aching pulse of Murphy’s heart- he stands, steady, firm, steel-willed, and walks back inside.

No more mourning for the living. Time to move on.

 

***

 

_“Dear Bellamy,_

_There isnt a world where we dont belong togethur. Where you arent the hot guy with the ~~freckuls~~ freckels. I tried to forget about you but I cant._

_I know what Id do to get you to love me and I wouldve done much worst._

_Im moving on. I wanna make new memorys with you and I wont forget them until Im old and gray and disgusting and you have to spoon feed me ~~putting~~  pudding becus I want to grow old with you Bellamy Blake._

_I love you, if youll let me._

_Dont ever lie to me again asshole._

_I hope you still love me too.”_

Bellamy clutches the paper to his chest like- well, a crushing schoolgirl. He feels tears in his eyes but he blinks them away because this is the best god damn thing that’s ever happened to him and he’s not going to fucking cry right now, damn it.

Murphy’s print is almost illegible, has an absurd amount of grammatical errors (but he knows how much Murphy hates writing, and finds himself feeling giddy with the knowledge of how much effort he must have put into this) and is followed by a crude doodle of an old man with curly hair and freckles feeding spoons of what's presumably pudding to another old man with a big nose in a rocking chair. Elderly-Murphy also has a robot arm, but Bellamy chooses to overlook that. His heart, which has felt numb and cold for so long, is bursting with love. Simple as that. He’s beaming, he feels like he’s glowing and he’s so, so, so in love.

It’s disgusting.

And it’s also what drags him out of his room in the dead of night and plants him in Murphy’s doorway, heart pounding a million beats a minute.

“Bellamy? You still lo-”

He answers the only way he knows how, and crashes his lips against Murphy’s with as little grace or romance as earthly possible, their teeth clacking together as he grins ear to ear and as Murphy laughs, gathering a fist of the fabric of Bellamy's t-shirt in hand and keeping him close, being his anchor, like always.

“I’ll never lie to you again,” he whispers against Murphy’s lips, and the younger boy is looking up at him from under his lashes and beaming, eyes sleepy and mouth stretched in a lazy smile. “I know.”

“I’ve been constipated for like four days.”

“You can lie to me about some things.” Murphy grimaces, but then explodes into laughter and collapses against him, shoulders bouncing and arms trembling as he laughs and Bellamy can’t help but do the same, letting out a deep chuckle and tucking his chin atop his lover’s head as the brunet’s loud, booming laughter fades into something quieter.

“I’ve missed you, you bitch,” Murphy sighs against Bellamy’s chest, stringy brown hair falling into his eyes as he wraps his arms around the taller man’s waist.

“Missed you too, jerk.” The arms around his waist tighten as Murphy stops swaying and looks up at him with shining, wet eyes. Bellamy’s lips turn down into a deep frown. “No more crying,” he orders, and before Murphy can respond, he picks the boy up from under his shoulders and squishes him in a bear-hug, leaving Murphy gasping and beating his palms against Bellamy’s chest to be put down.

“You sure you wanna live the rest of your life with me?” Bellamy threatens, raising his brows as Murphy struggles.

“No, but I’m going to,” he huffs, finally wriggling out of Bellamy’s grasp, kind of sweaty but still teary-eyed and beaming. “We have memories to make, remember?”

And Bellamy knows it’s true.

Because there isn’t a world where they don’t belong together. Where he isn’t the hot guy with the freckles. Where they don’t grow old with one another in a farmhouse, bitter and gray and spoon-feeding each other pudding, losing their memory together.

 

_There just isn’t._

 

 

_(fin.)_

**Author's Note:**

> guys im hecka insecure about this fic i am so stressed i need feedback real bad any kind of compliments or criticism is welcome because i am dying
> 
> this is the longest ive ever spent on a fic and i dont even like the end result. i dont know if its because ive read it four hundred times now or because i'm used to writing very detailed and metaphorical prose-y types of works and this actually has some semblance of plot but i feel like this piece is really boring and ooc and lackluster and i just hate it to be quite honest but i cant write something and not post it because idk but i am PANICKING because i loved this idea (as overused a trope as it is) and i feel like i totally wrecked it. :/// ANYWAYS im saying this because i think if i got enough reasons to rewrite it from you guys i would do so and come back with something better? but if its okay like it is i wouldnt mind hearing that either
> 
> im sorry i am very anxious and insecure and getting way too comfortable using this website as my personal creative writing class
> 
> <33 thank you guys for suffering through this and reading, all of the love!!


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